Sunday, January 25, 2015


The fat yellow moon lent a shimmery ivory hue to Vermont drifts. I wanted to talk about our schism, find out if we were still brothers, but Nate side-stepped it by asking about the case.

“Major storms never hit this little town. Tornadoes turn aside. Blizzards skip on by. They get rain and snow, but nothing that results in destruction.”

Nate shrugged. “Could be coincidence.”

“For over a hundred years?” I scoffed.

“Why investigate now?”

If I wanted a thousand miles of silence, I’d confess Uncle Jim and I were worried. Instead, I clung to fragile peace.

“Because Jim asked.”


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